


ask

by fallencrest



Category: Fast & Furious 6 (2013), Fast & Furious 7 (2014), Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: M/M, Possessive Behavior, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallencrest/pseuds/fallencrest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's one thing he's always needed Owen to ask for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ask

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



Deckard joins the army almost as early as he can. He hadn't seen much use in school though he'd sat through more of it than some people might credit. He even stays to sit his exams the summer after he's turned 16, isn't dumb enough not to have asked whether he could make officer without them. He'd cut off the recruiter when they'd tried to tell him he could enter as an officer if he waited two years and studied more. “That's not really my style,” he'd said, a slight smile pulling at the skin of his split lip. The recruiter had looked disapproving but Deckard had never been in it for anyone's approval – he just wanted up and out, wanted a use for his skills which wasn't as low level muscle in someone else's gang. He's seen first hand the incompetence of street kids who think they're hard and he has enough self respect not to want to operate that way.

There was only one thing that had almost held him back. It's the same thing as always, same thing that had always pulled him back when he was about to quit town or get himself referred to the kind of school where they're only pretending it isn't juvie. 

Owen is, well, he isn't a good kid but he's better at pretending to be one than his big brother ever was. With Deckard leaving at 16, Owen's almost the same age that Deckard was when Owen was born and his age shows, mostly. Owen has always followed him around and, in the past year or two, this has included following him across town after school, waiting and watching from places he figured Deckard wouldn't see him. He's good enough at it that sometimes Deckard doesn't see him at first. 

The thing with Owen though is that Deckard sometimes feels like his brother is a chink in his armour more than his saving grace. The kid is the only person Deckard actually gives a shit about, annoying as hell though he might be sometimes. Maybe it's because Owen stares up at him wide-eyed and treats him like he's the greatest thing he's ever seen but Deckard thinks he'd do just about anything for his brother and it's the one thing that makes it almost hard to leave.

Owen's not a typical kid though, not the kind to cry about his big brother going away and abandoning him. When Deckard ruffles his hair and asks if Owen will be alright without him, Owen huffs and says he can look after himself. 

But, later, cuddled up against his side on the sofa, watching an old action movie on repeat for the twentieth time, he spins a different kind of tale of how he sees life after Deckard's gone. Their father has never been a temperate man, running to anger and violence at little enough provocation, and Deckard's taken more beatings from him than he can count even after he got big enough to hit back. He always thought it wasn't worth it to hit back, taking a hit not being half so bad as having to find another place to sleep. The thought of his father laying into Owen is enough to turn Deckard's own blood though and he's damn sure Owen knows it – even if he doesn't think that's the reason for all the times Owen has fixed it so that Deckard would take the fall for him and the beating besides. Owen has always been damn good at self-preservation.

Owen falls asleep on him on the sofa that night before the movie's final showdown has even started and Deckard slips out quiet as he can manage. He knows where their father goes to drink, knows the way he walks home and the best place to go to meet him. 

When he comes home with blood on his knuckles, it's almost morning and the TV has turned to snowscreen and the numbing pleasantness of static. 

He rewinds the video tape, feeling pleased with himself for lifting the VHS player last summer, and slots himself in beside Owen on the sofa again. 

Owen stirs and asks if the part with the bike chase has happened yet and Deckard smiles and tells him it'll be on soon. 

There's something about the mostly dark room, coloured by the scenes of the movie and the streetlight glare through the blinds, that makes it feel like it's only him and his brother that matter in the whole world. 

Owen falls asleep again after the chase scene and Deckard doesn't wake him when he picks him up to carry him to bed. He doesn't say anything about how their father isn't ever coming home. He thinks Owen knew the moment he mentioned their father how it would go and, more than that, he wouldn't be surprised if Owen's sleeping had all been a pretence. Knowing Owen as he does, he'd guess that Owen had watched the bike chase twice and counted the minutes between the moment Deckard sneaked out and when he came back. Deckard wouldn't even have been surprised if Owen had followed him – though he doesn't think he actually did. 

 

Deckard comes home a few times after that. He only has to come back a few times because Owen signs up for the army at sixteen, too, following Deckard the way he always has.

 

The first time he comes back is straight after training. His mother looks at him coldly, keeping her distance, but Owen is full of questions, wants to know everything Deckard's done since he'd left, every drill and every stupid disciplinary he'd got for punching someone he shouldn't. 

 

Then Deckard gets deployed and coming home isn't so simple. 

He makes it back after his first deployment when Owen is fourteen and has almost doubled in height. “You're almost as tall as me,” Deckard says, laughing. It isn't quite true but he thinks it will be soon enough.

Their mother's got a new man but Deckard barely sees him. 

“He's fucking terrified of you,” Owen says, by way of explanation. 

“What did you tell him?” Deckard asks, a touch of anger and suspicion in his voice.

“I didn't say anything. Might've been mum though. She's not stupid.” 

Deckard frowns but doesn't push the point. “But he's alright to you? The new bloke?”

“Yeah, he's alright. Harmless, really.” 

Deckard laughs, wants to say something about how some things do change after all, even if Owen hasn't – apart from the height. 

He takes him down to their dad's old local and buys him a pint but they go back home afterwards and rummage through the old video collection. 

In the dull glare of Terminator, Owen even lets Deckard drape an arm over him and occasionally ruffle his hair, though he makes a face about it the first time Deckard tries, says something about how he could probably take him on now, and how he isn't afraid to punch him. 

“You never were,” Deckard says, warmly, damn sure he wouldn't ever punch back anyway, not unless he was certain it was a fair fight and his brother wanted him to.

 

They aren't in the same unit in the army and that's probably a good thing. 

Owen strikes out on his own, becomes his own man. He learns a new way of talking, cribbing from the clipped speech of the officers and becomes one himself, gets his promotion just a couple of years behind his brother. 

Deckard's proud of him in a stupid, irrational way, even when Owen manages to be the reason that both of them get thrown out. They both know enough by then to survive without the army. They have both the contacts and the skills to make a lot more money and a lot more impact than the army ever offered them. 

They work together occasionally, when it benefits them, but more often they go their own separate ways. It works well enough for Deckard, since he figures he'd probably end up making stupid decisions if Owen so much as asked him to. He's always been far too easy for his brother to manipulate, too keen to look out for him and draw a smile from his lips or a laugh from his throat.

Still, they've never been much good at keeping their distance from each other. Deckard always keen to check in and make sure his little brother's doing alright and Owen never quite having lost the habit of following him. It makes it fucking hard for him sometimes, though Deckard wouldn't ever admit it.

 

They meet in a pub for old times' sake, in the sort of set up where Deckard's damn sure that Owen wants something. Only Owen doesn't ask for anything. There's no talk of a job or hint at a little bit of a mess which might need clearing up. Instead Owen just sits across from him and keeps looking, watches him like he's something interesting. 

Deckard follows Owen's eyes, the way they fix on his hands, on his throat as he swallows, and he knows what this is without saying anything. He's known about this for a while but never could quite bring himself to say anything about it. This is one thing that he needs Owen to actually ask for. He's not taking hints and allusions for this: only the cold, bare truth of it in words. 

He knows Owen had followed him, that one time when he'd been younger and more foolish and picked up a guy without thinking his brother was there. He knows Owen had stayed and watched and he hates that he'd been glad about it, hates that he likes the way that Owen has looked at him since, like he's hungry and wanting and knows what's under Deckard's skin. 

 

He doesn't know why he goes to pick up a guy after he and Owen part ways that night; rationally, he can't justify it. But there's the feeling of Owen's eyes on him which he can't shake off and the knowledge that Owen is following him and that there are things that he wants that aren't about to go away. 

He doesn't mean to angle himself to the window in a way that gives Owen a show – at least, he doesn't want to be glad when it happens. But he finds himself making a show of it anyway, tilting his head back while the guy sucks him off, telling him to leave it when he goes to close the blinds. He knows exactly what he's doing and he hates the way it makes this all so much better than it ever is when Owen isn't there. 

There's one thing he doesn't count on though. One thing he couldn't have factored in. 

When the guy opens the door to leave, he says “what the fuck?” and Owen walks right past him into the room. 

Deckard has about enough equilibrium left in him to say, “It's okay, I know him. You can leave,” which is all the prompting required for the guy practically to leg it out of the door and down the stairs. 

Owen looks like he's about to laugh, except there's something more to his expression than that, darker and tinged with want. He closes the door behind him and then crosses the room until he's stood so close to Deckard that Deckard almost wants to shove him back.

Owen's eyes are fixed on him and there's a wariness about him, as though he half-expects Deckard to bolt like a frightened animal. Instead, Deckard stands as still as he can make himself, lets his brother put a hand on his arm, lean in and kiss him. 

He has to remind himself not to kiss back. He tells himself that he isn't going to let his brother goad him into doing this the way he has with so many other things, that this was always where he'd drawn the line. 

Owen pulls back and looks at him, a little wounded and indignant. 

“So you'll fuck a guy off the street but you won't fuck me?” Owen bites out. He's scowling and, fuck, he looks just like he always did as a kid when he didn't get his own way and Deckard almost wants to laugh at that except for how this isn't funny at all.

“Do you want me to?” Deckard asks, feeling like the words are torn out of him and more than he should say, too close to asking for it himself. 

“I want you to want to,” Owen says. 

Typical and twisted of him, Deckard thinks; Owen never wants to let anyone else have the upper hand. But he can't say he wants to, can't have Owen trick him in some kind of twisted game of chicken and have it used against him like a knife every time Owen feels like reminding him of it. 

He imagines Owen whispering it in his ear every time he wants something from him, _“I let you fuck me,” he'd say, “I gave you what you wanted and now...”_

Deckard pushes him away hard, though Owen barely takes more than a step backwards.

“Okay,” Owen says, raising his hands up as if in surrender, “Fine, have it your way. If you won't fuck me then I guess I'll have to find an alternative,” and he leaves with only one glance over his shoulder, wicked and dark.

Deckard follows him because he may have the discipline not to let Owen make him do something stupid but he doesn't think he could ever hold back from an opportunity to find out what Owen's game is, especially not when he's willing to go this far for it. He needs to know what it is that Owen wants him for so badly that he'd offer himself up like this, needs to understand the stakes in this devil's pact his brother seems so keen to make.

Only, what he finds when he follows Owen isn't quite what he'd expected. 

 

He doesn't follow Owen into the bar, isn't stupid enough to do something that conspicuous, but he sees Owen coming out again, all handsy familiarity with an older guy in a tank top and muscles that seem all for show. 

They stop outside the bar, just where the alleyway beside it meets the street, and Owen kisses the guy. 

Deckard watches for a moment, waiting to see what this is supposed to be. He's damn sure Owen's never kissed a guy before; whatever the fuck game Owen's playing with him excepted, he's never seemed remotely interested in guys. But there Owen is, kissing some stranger, pressing up against him, hands moving like he's unbuckling the guy's belt.

Deckard crosses the street and sidles up to them before he's even thought about what he's doing or what the fuck he's going to say. He only knows that he isn't going to stand for any man who isn't him laying hands on his brother. 

He hears Owen saying something, something about what he wants this guy to do to him, and he almost wants to stop and listen, just so he can hear Owen say it; but he knows he's blown his cover now and that they're both about to notice that he's three paces away from them, so doing nothing isn't exactly an option.

“Get your fucking hands off my brother,” Deckard says, and the guy does, takes a few steps back and starts saying something about how he doesn't want any trouble. Deckard keeps walking towards him anyway, swings one punch and then a second until the guy's on the floor at his feet. 

He keeps laying into him, kicking him, until Owen grabs Deckard from behind and pulls him off. 

It's so unexpected that Deckard doesn't manage to put up any resistance when Owen practically throws him to the side. He stumbles, and then Owen is backing him into the wall, shoving him and stepping into Deckard's space until he's got him pretty near backed up against it. 

Deckard sees the guy crawling up off the ground and almost goes to push Owen off so he can go after him but then Owen's yelling at him, a hand on each of his shoulders pushing him back and pining him up against the wall.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Owen says, “it's okay for you to pick up some trash off the street to fuck after I spend all night laying it out for you, but I ask you to fuck me and you deny me like you aren't fucking interested at all. Then I try and find someone else and I'm not allowed that either? It'd be one thing if you wanted me but you can't make it so no-one else can have me if you won't either. Fuck.” 

He punctuates his last word by shoving Deckard hard against the wall again. 

“I come to town and I pretty much beg you for it and I know you want it. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Owen sounds spun out and almost broken, like he can't quite believe the mess they've got themselves into. 

Deckard watches Owen's face, wide open and hurt and fucking desperate, and he wants to fix it. This is his brother, the one person alive whose happiness he cares about and he feels so blind and angry and so fucking done. 

“Don't play games with me,” Deckard says, “tell me this isn't all just one twisted fucking game and maybe I'd believe you –”

“You think this is a game?” Owen says, he barks a single laugh without any humour in it, “a fucking game?” 

Then he punches Deckard and Deckard grabs him, and they stare each other down, as if each waiting for the other to break and make a move. 

In the end, Deckard isn't sure whether it's him or Owen who initiates the kiss but it's desperate and reciprocal and leaves both of them gasping, grabbing roughly at each other's clothes and skin as if trying to gain purchase, struggling not to lose hold. It isn't expert, doesn't even start out as a particularly good kiss, they're both too desperate and too far gone. 

Deckard slides his hands up under Owen's shirt, can feel his ragged breathing through the uneven contractions of his chest, tries to make himself calm and slow, tries to come back to himself a little. 

“Ask me to,” Deckard says, as he breaks the kiss and puts the little bit of distance he can between them, “if you want this, I need you to ask for it.”

Owen frowns at him, as if Deckard is speaking some kind of language he doesn't understand. Deckard runs his hand down Owen's chest to stop at the top of his jeans, skims fingers underneath the waistband, lingers. 

Owen pulls away suddenly without giving Deckard a lot of time to react, says “you're the one playing some fucked up game,” as he goes to walk away. 

Deckard grabs hold of Owen's wrist and yanks him back around. He knows his face must look broken and desperate as much as it does angry and defiant. 

Owen just looks angry and more thrown than he normally lets himself show. 

Deckard grabs hold of him and doesn't check his own anger in the way he twists his brother around and slams him back up against the wall, reversing their previous positions. 

His brother isn't going to walk away from this one, isn't going to find some way to back out and make this all work in his favour like he normally does and Deckard is going to get something out of him, a question or an answer – either one would be something better than letting Owen walk away.

“This isn't a game to me,” Deckard says, because Owen has always been the one thing he could never afford to screw up. “What the fuck would I have to gain from that?” 

He has both hands on Owen's shoulders, pushing him flush against the wall, grip tight enough that it almost hurts.

“You tell me,” Owen says, almost sounding calm and smug now, because he's always been comfortable with words as a fallback to make things go his way, “Maybe you want to get the upper-hand for once. You see that I want you and it disgusts you, so you think you'll pay me back for all the times you did things for me that you shouldn't have – for my getting you kicked out of the army, for dad, for –” 

“No.” Deckard says, applying a little jolt of force to where he's got Owen pinned, as if to shock him out of speaking and make him listen. “I'd do anything, fucking anything for you.” He knows how desperate he sounds and how fucking tangled and ridiculous it is. It'd bother him to make this big an admission about how far he's willing to go for his brother, if he didn't already know that it's something that Owen had long ago figured out. 

“But you won't fuck me,” Owen says and he puts one hand on top of Deckard's own and Deckard isn't sure if it's out of tenderness or if Owen's about to try to break his fingers in order to break his grip.

“Ask me to fuck you,” Deckard growls, leaning in close so his teeth almost graze Owen's throat, “and I swear I will.”

Owen reaches out his hand and uses it to raise Deckard's chin, making sure Deckard is looking him in the eye as he says, “Fuck me.”

Deckard doesn't say yes, doesn't need to say anything. Owen presses up against Deckard's hands which are still holding him flush to the wall, trying to close the space that's left between them. Deckard takes a short step forward to meet him, closing the gap and releasing his grip on Owen's shoulders at the same time, letting his hands wander. 

When they kiss this time it's more controlled but no less intense, Owen using the little space available to him to grind his body up against Deckard's, trying to make his breath hitch and gasp into the kiss.

Deckard tries to hold him back, slow the pace, but Owen is desperate and eager, palms at the front of Deckard's jeans, grabs Deckard's wrist with his other hand when he tries to stop him. 

Deckard tries to say that they should go back to his, because it isn't far and this is stupid and too public, barely concealed from the street and half-illuminated, even if they are outside the spotlight gleam of the halo of the streetlamp. 

Owen's words are almost a whisper, breathed against Deckard's lips when he says, “here,” and “you swore,” as though he thinks that Deckard might back out if given half a chance, as if he still doesn't realise that Deckard would kill for this – kill anyone else who tried to stop them. 

The thing is Deckard knows Owen hasn't done this before – is damn sure of it anyway – wants to take his time, needs to make sure Owen gets everything he wants and that he likes it, that this doesn't end up being some one time disaster which ruins everything.

So he gets down on his knees and does something he never normally does, sliding Owen's underwear and jeans down his hips, running his fingers up the shaft of Owen's cock before he traces it with his tongue, makes a show of wetting his lips before he lowers them down over the head of Owen's cock. The sounds Owen makes are worth it, worth having to hold Owen's hips so he doesn't buck too much against the feel of it. 

Owen has his head tipped back, eyes closed, but he pries the fingers of Deckard's right hand off his hips just as Deckard's building a rhythm, and he guides Deckard's hand so his fingers are brushing his hole. Deckard almost jerks his hand back, doesn't think Owen could really want this, not here and now, but then Owen's breathing out “please,” like he's desperate and sure and Deckard never could deny him anything, particularly not when it's something he wants it as badly as he wants this. 

It takes Owen a few seconds to relax into it, into the feel of the first finger, then the second, but he does. It helps that he's brought lube which must've been concealed in the back pocket of his jeans the whole time like a signal of intent. Deckard also suspects he's been practising, building to this, the way Owen plans for everything, manages every scenario so that he's perfectly in control. 

Still, Deckard can feel the way that Owen is losing it now, can feel the way Owen clenches around him as he runs his tongue along his cock. Owen may have engineered this but Deckard's the one who's driving it, pulling off to run his tongue over the head of Owen's cock and taste the pre-come as it leaks out; his two fingers knuckle-deep and easing Owen open for him. 

He presses Owen against the bricks like Owen isn't the one thing he'd die for – because he knows Owen never wanted him to treat him like he couldn't take a hit, couldn't look after himself – and because Owen says, “fuck me,” again, words bitten out, and hand gripping Deckard's wrist hard enough to bruise. 

Owen kisses with enough teeth to draw blood, catching Deckard's lip between his teeth to stop him from pulling away, makes it feel almost more like a fight than like fucking. 

Deckard tries to take it slow as he pushes into Owen, tries for gentleness, but Owen presses down against his cock like he's trying to prove he can handle it – even if the way he gasps and tightens around Deckard seems to belie that. 

Owen isn't afraid to say what he wants, ask for more, keeps up an occasional stream of words like “fuck” and “yes” while Deckard doesn't think he could bring himself to say anything. 

“I've wanted you since, fuck, oh fuck,” Owen says, and Deckard can't help the smile that spreads his lips at that, the admission and the way Owen can't seem to hold it together.

Owen lets him slow down after his initial insistence that he can take it, that he needs more. He lets Deckard test the angle and the pace, doesn't object when Deckard takes his time running fingers over the short-cropped hair at the nape of his neck, breathing close against his ear. 

Then Deckard finds his voice. “Couldn't let anyone have you like this,” he says, thrusting deeper than he has been, listening to the sound Owen makes in response. “Only me.” And, as he draws out breaths, getting ragged as he starts to lose himself to it, he half-forms the word “mine” on every exhale until Owen breathes out “yes” in response. 

 

Afterwards, the both stare at each other, catching their breath, and Deckard isn't quite sure that any of this is real. He isn't sure whether it's something he says that convinces Owen to come back with him to his place or whether Owen was always going to follow him home. 

They don't talk much and Deckard thinks they're going to take turns in the shower until Owen comes into the bathroom, doesn't do anything other than watch him, then back him into the tiles for a long, near-aggressive kiss after he turns off the water

In the morning, Owen is gone. He leaves behind a note which says something about business needing to be attended to and Deckard almost puts his fist through the wall in anger at himself for letting Owen slip out that easily. He doesn't want to talk about it but he doesn't want this to turn out to be a one-time thing, either. 

 

Two weeks later, he touches down in New York to set in motion another dirty job that needs doing for his current employer; and within twenty minutes of his clearing customs, he gets a text saying that when he's done for the night he should come to a certain room in a fancy hotel a block from Penn Station. 

He doesn't realise it's Owen until he goes by the hotel and sees the name the room is under and then he smiles a wicked smile as he picks up the spare room key Owen's left for him with the lobby clerk.

When he enters the room where Owen's waiting for him, the first thing his brother says is “I hope I'm not the person they've sent you here to kill.”

Deckard replies that it'd be an interesting conversation they'd be having if that were the case, since he thinks taking down the whole of his employer's operations would be a challenge even for them, and Owen should probably be sad that he won't get a crack at that any time soon. 

Owen presses him against the door and kisses him, smirks at him something wicked before going to his knees. 

Deckard thinks then that he's actually almost disappointed that they aren't going to get to take down Harris' operation together. 

Later, he finds out secondhand that Owen was only in town to begin with to steal a shipment of tech and munitions that rightfully belong to Harris' New York arm; and there's more than a small sting of anger that comes with that – even if, in a twisted kind of way, he's got his wish. Turns out, he's going to have to take on his employer anyway, all due to his little brother being arrogant and unafraid of anyone. 

He's grateful that he's already picked up payment for a job well done by the time he has to come up with a plan to give Owen covering fire for his getaway; but he's more than a little irked that Owen doesn't bother to call until Deckard's already made his own move to destabilise Harris' operations. 

“You should've told me about this, brother,” Deckard says before Owen has a chance to greet him.

“That would have been a lot less fun,” is Owen's wry response. 

He promises himself that he'll at least take a swing at Owen to show how unimpressed he is by this but, as he fires up his stolen getaway car and guns it out of the city, he isn't sure he'll actually do it. Owen has a way of making him break his resolve like that and that's something he doesn't see going away any time soon.


End file.
